Asylum
by GreenWood Elf
Summary: A series of oneshots detailing the life of Mrs. Lovett, the sometimes penniless, rarely proper but always murderous pie baker of Fleet Street. Mostly ToddLovett. Rating may go up.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **I really shouldn't be starting a new fic now, but the "Sweeney Todd" movie was too delicious to pass up. This story will comprise of interconnecting one-shots based on Mrs. Lovett's life, the first of which is set fifteen years before the events in "Todd". Of course, I love feedback, so please review and let me know if you like, hate or couldn't care less about this story. I hope you enjoy!

**Summary: **A series of one-shots detailing the life of Mrs. Lovett, the sometimes penniless, rarely proper but always murderous pie baker of Fleet Street. Mostly Todd/Lovett. Rating may go up.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Sweeney Todd or it's characters.

**Asylum **

_London, 1873_

Mrs. Lovett sat in her Albert's chair on Thursday evening. It wasn't a comfortable chair really, a bit creaky, a bit stiff and still smelling of the slop that slathered his clothes. Her late husband had been a butcher, he had. A fair one. And every night he came home stinking of slippery entrails and blood. Mrs. Lovett didn't mind so much, having a poor sense of smell herself.

But she could hear well enough.

Tiny shoes tapped on the floor above her. Rat-tat, rat-tat. Smart little boots for pretty little feet. The barber's wife was walking about, rushing about, fetching a fancy ribbon for her yellow hair, bouncing the baby on her hip.

Mrs. Lovett glanced at the low ceiling above. The chipped paint looked like ghastly scabs, catching the light of the gas lamps outside and casting crooked shadows over the walls. A frown folded her lips.

They were always making noise, they were, the barber singing, whistling, the wife laughing. The baby crying. God, she had never heard a baby cry so loud and the sound grated on her nerves, mocked her.

She had always wanted children, though Albert had never been keen on the idea. And now, and now the grave had him, the clay cold ground.

Her frown deepened.

Neat bottles of gin lined the sideboard, glistening in the fogged moonlight. Fetid air seeped in from the rotting streets.

Oh and she was rotting inside. Well, not rotting, but weeping, crying, crying like that baby upstairs.

Poor woman, all alone.

Albert's butcher shop sat silently and ghosts waltzed past the dusty counter, fingered his old, dull knives. And she had no means now. Her pockets were empty, her house threadbare. She had even thought of selling her hair. But the wigmaker said only gold hair was worth a pin, not brown, not her ratty nest.

Ah, poor thing.

Mrs. Lovett touched her brow, kneading the flesh, chasing away the first sharp pangs of a headache. A hansom cab pulled up the street and rolled to a stop in the gutter. The sprightly driver hopped down and brushed his black hat free of soot.

She stood, sidled over to the window and leaned against the chilly panes. The horse was handsome, standing there in his fine leathers, the traces polished. A sigh slipped past her pursed lips.

Albert had kept a pony to pull his butcher's cart. Up and down the alleys he would ride, delivering steaks to the rich and fatty chops to those who thought themselves grand enough to afford meat.

But even she couldn't afford meat now.

The cab driver hitched his horse to a post and walked up to her door. The bell rang. The bustle upstairs ceased.

"Is that the cab already?" Mr. Barker was coming down the stairs, his feet skipping a step, jogging along the hall.

Mrs. Lovett turned from the window and peered through the crack in the door.

Ah, he was dressed all nice-like tonight. Like a fop. But the man wasn't a fop, perhaps a little foolish, but not a fop.

She watched as he opened the door, spoke to the driver in a polite, jolly voice.

"It's the wife, you know," he laughed. "She has to look smart. But we'll be down in a minute if you'll wait. And here's something for your trouble."

Coins jangled, fell from Mr. Barker's smooth hand into the leather glove of the driver.

"Oi, anything you say, sir."

A hat was tipped, the door shut. Mr. Barker turned around, palms pressed to his hips. He was wearing a red waistcoat and lovely, laundered trousers-

A sudden knock drove Mrs. Lovett away from the door. She stumbled, tripped on the black hem of her gown and gathered herself.

"Mrs. Lovett?"

He was calling to her, the warmth of his voice a living thing, a charmed entity that left her throat dry.

"Yes?" she replied stiffly and settled herself back into old Albert's chair. The edge of her gown was indecently lifted when he entered, but the man was blind and he had eyes only for her face.

"Mrs. Lovett, I'm sorry to intrude-"

"S'alright, dearie."

"But I was wondering, if you'd be so kind-"

"I can't wait for the rent any longer. Me pockets are empty this month and I have at least one stomach to feed."

"Of course." Mr. Barker smiled, his strong shoulder leaning against the open door, the knob twisting beneath his hands. Pretty hands, such gentle, pretty hands. "I'll have it for you in the morning if you like. Have Lucy put the purse on the stairs when she goes out. But I wondered if I could ask a favor."

Mrs. Lovett drummed her fingers on her thighs. "What is it then?"

He chuckled under his breath, eyes down, on the tops of his polished shoes. "I'm taking Lucy to the theater tonight, maybe to a music hall after. Would you watch Johanna for us? She's asleep now, probably won't wake till morn unless she's fussy. If you'd only just sit with her, Mrs. Lovett. Lucy hates leaving her alone through the night and we never-"

"This isn't a nursery, Mr. Barker," Mrs. Lovett snapped.

The barber's smile faded. "Oh, oh of course, Mrs. Lovett. I had only thought-"

"But if you bring the cradle down here, I'll look after her. I've no one else to see to now anyway."

"Certainly." Mr. Barker looked relieved. "It'll just be a moment, just a moment." And then he turned on his heel, left the door ajar and rushed up the stairs. Mrs. Lovett heard him shuffling about overhead.

The cradle was lifted down, placed in the middle of her parlor on the old green rug and Mrs. Lovett stared at the thing. Lace. Lace and linen lined the little bed. Mrs. Barker carried the sleeping baby down in her arms.

"My thanks," she hummed, settling the infant gently within and placing a feather kiss atop the pink forehead. And then she danced out of the room, awash in a soft blue dress, crinoline petticoats sounding like fallen leaves as they swished about her dainty legs.

Mrs. Lovett folded her arms over her chest. She was painfully aware of her dreary widow's garb. Mourning, she was still in mourning while the barber's flighty wife was free to wear her finery.

Mr. Barker was at the door last, closing it behind him, still smiling.

"Good night, Mrs. Lovett. And I'll have the rent in the morning, no worries."

A jerk of her chin suggested her agreement or derision as it might be. The hansom cab pulled away, harness ringing merrily all the way down the street.

Mrs. Lovett was alone. Well, not quite.

Little Johanna wriggled about in her cradle, a shrill cry ripping her from sleep.

And inside, Mrs. Lovett wept as well.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Thanks for reading, now please review. Have a wonderful weekend! 


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Wow, so many reviews! I am overjoyed and I sincerely thank you all, **canangelscry**, **smashing**, **DemonicSymphony**, **Tombstone Girl**, **andaere, anbumoo**, **Princess dogooder**, **Faith-Catherine**, **KayokoNitta**, **92monkeys**, **Aya SL** and **BohemianCane04**. Thanks so much, everyone. You have no idea how much I appreciate your feedback. Now, on to part two. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Sweeney Todd or it's characters.

**Part Two**

Mrs. Lovett threw her wash tub water out into the street, nearly missing a toothless urchin who tossed a few choice words her way.

"Oi, that's right, dearie," she replied, tucking the tub under her arm and heading back inside. Her hands were chafed, raw and she hadn't even started with the bleaching yet. Humph, laundress work certainly wasn't worth the few poor pennies she was paid.

Dusty, dank light fell through the window panes and she sighed, oh, they were in need of washing too. Why the whole house stank, the floor slippery as clothes dried on hastily strung up strings that lined the hall. And her parlor was crowded with laundry baskets. Grey, rumpled shirts spilled out of bags. Stockings were piled on her Albert's chair.

So this was a widow's fate.

Mrs. Lovett turned back to her washing, propped the soapy, greasy board up inside the basin and reached for a stained petticoat.

Well, at least the barber was doing well for himself. Just the other day he had brought his wife a whole bouquet of flowers, pretty things and Mrs. Lovett had watched as he walked through the hall with them. They were bright, colorful, a spot of light in her otherwise dreary house. And he had been bright too, colorful, smiling as he walked up the stairs to her.

"Lucy, my sweetheart!" His voice called to her, sweet, honey sweet and Mrs. Lovett had kicked her footstool across her parlor. Why, she didn't know. But she had always had a fondness for that Mr. Barker, she did.

But she hated them both now. The wife and fool. Happy, cheery, lucky. And she was standing in her own parlor pouring piss into pans for bleaching.

Mrs. Lovett leaned against the old tub, her hands working furiously, kneading the cloth. Hmm, it reminded her of the rare times when Albert had some left over scrapes of meat and she would bake up a few pies for him. Always loved them, he did and he would sop up the last of the gravy with the light, fluffy crust.

Mrs. Lovett paused. She'd rather be doing that now, baking pies. And if she had the money, yes, maybe she could change the old butcher's shop into a bake house….

A sharp knock on the door ruptured her reverie. Mrs. Lovett cursed under her breath and dried her hands on her apron.

"I'm coming, I am," she called, taking her time as she walked out into the hall. God, what if it was another woman come to hand over her laundry? She simply hadn't the time, hadn't the energy to-

"Widow Lovett?" The lisping, licentious voice made her stop.

Mrs. Lovett raised a brow. Damn it all.

She opened the door and forced a toothy smile.

"Beadle Bamford, good afternoon, sir."

The portly man bowed, doffed his hat and revealed a mop of stringy, tawny hair. "Widow Lovett, you're looking especially lovely today."

"Oh, psh, I must smell of piss, sir. All the bleaching, you now." She stepped aside to let him in.

"Ah, so you've taken up laundress work?" He passed by, his round hip brushing against the bottom of her boned corset.

She flushed furiously.

The Beadle was wearing his rough leather topcoat as usual, the one that looked like alligator's skin and barely buttoned over his large stomach. He showed himself into her parlor and Mrs. Lovett had to clear Albert's chair of stockings so that he could sit properly, much as she hated to seem him plant his buttocks there.

"Yes, sir, laundress work, as you can see. Got to pay me creditors, of course, like any respectable person."

The Beadle waved a thick finger in her face. "You're a clever one, you are, Widow Lovett." And without warning, he pinched her cheek.

"It's Mrs. Lovett, if you please, sir," she said, taking a quick step back and upsetting the washing tub. Dirty water bled into her carpet.

"And a clumsy one as well," he said as she got onto her hands and knees to tidy up the mess. His eyes focused on her rump and she swallowed away an outraged scream.

"Eh, what was it you were wanting then?" she asked, panting a little as she finally straightened.

"Funny you should ask, madam," he chuckled, eyes suddenly narrowing, tongue flicking along his yellow lips. "It's about you creditors, in fact, Judge Turpin to be specific. He made you that loan sometime ago."

"Ah." Mrs. Lovett clenched her hands together and felt her knuckles crack. "That he did, sir, that he did."

"And he was wondering, madam, when it's to be paid back." The Beadle shifted and stuck his stubby legs out.

Mrs. Lovett felt panic rise within her and her heartbeat quickened, pumping hot blood into her already warm face. "Well, I've been sending him some money, sir, just a little, more than I can afford, actually-"

"Pennies, Widow Lovett. You've been sending him pennies." The Beadle flicked his fingers along the brim of his hat. "As it is, His Honor has been wondering if you might send along something more substantial this time."

Mrs. Lovett tried to think fast, but her mind labored under lost memories, memories of the days when Albert had taken care of such business and she had been free, a careless, silly bride herself. And dear God, she had no money in the house, save for a single shilling she was hoping to buy some supper with.

"Sir," she began, but upstairs the floorboards creaked and flighty Lucy Barker started to sing, walking about with her babe in her arms no doubt.

_As I was a-walking along Radcliffe highway  
A recruiting party came a-beating my way  
They enlisted me and treated me till I did not know  
And to the Queen's barracks they forced me to go _

The Beadle was briefly distracted and he glanced at the ceiling, a crooked smiling lifting his lips. "Humph," he mumbled and slapped his thigh. "Now, Widow Lovett, about that money. If you haven't anything in the house, well, I'm sure we could arrange something else to please His Honor."

He reached for her and Mrs. Lovett fell backwards, tripped over the now empty wash basin and caught herself on a heavy drape.

"No, sir," she said, eyes wild with anger, "that won't do, sir."

The Beadle's face turned a horrid shade of purple and he emitted a hearty choking noise as he tried to lift himself out of the chair. But then Lucy Barker began to sing again, her voice high, childish.

_When next I deserted, I thought myself free  
Until my cruel sweetheart informed against me  
I was quickly followed after and brought back with speed  
I was handcuffed and guarded, heavy irons put on me_

The Beadle paused once more. "Who would that be now, Widow Lovett?"

"What, sir?" She was breathless, her eyes combing the room and finding the poker resting by the fireplace. Furtively, she snuck over and took it in hand, resigned to defend what little honor she had left. If she had wanted to turn to whoring, she would have done so in the first place and joined the girls down in Whitechapel.

"The singing, woman." He was impatient now, had risen from the chair and walked to the open door, peeking into the hallway. "Who is that?"

Mrs. Lovett raised a brow, happy to have his back to her. She could hit him straight over the head if he tried something, yes, do it quick like. And she was surprised, actually, that the temptation to be rid of him was so strong. Course it would do no good in the end. She still had debts to pay and Turpin would be after her, no doubt and see her hanging or shipped off to Bedlam if it pleased him. Mrs. Lovett shivered. Lord knew what pleased Judge Turpin. She had been foolish to go to him for money, more foolish than that…

"Mrs. Barker, sir," she answered. "Lucy Barker, the barber's wife. You know Benjamin Barker, don't you?"

The Beadle whipped around suddenly and Mrs. Lovett tightened her grip on the poker, raising it a little.

"Lucy Barker, eh?" His bleary eyes were wide. "The one with the yellow hair?"

"The same one, sir."

"Your tenant?"

"Yes, sir. For some years now."

The Beadle laughed. Mrs. Lovett stiffened, thought about calling for help, though who would come to her aid? Certainly no knight in armor.

"You should have told me that from the first, Mrs. Lovett," he said and wriggled his fat fingers. "Should have told me from the start. I think, yes, I think we might be able to make a deal."

"A deal, sir?" Mrs. Lovett's breathing become shallow.

"With Judge Turpin, that is." The Beadle was businesslike now, adjusting his jacket. "Your debt would be erased, in exchange for a little, hmm, help."

Mrs. Lovett sucked in her breath. "I think I've made myself clear, sir. I ain't no whore, ain't no whore at all."

"Oh, I never said you were." And the Beadle winked, the motion naught but a garish twitch of the eye. "This is quite another matter, Mrs. Lovett. Quite another thing. Good day, then."

He was gone. The door slammed behind him. Mrs. Lovett watched him from out the window and with a sob-laced sigh, let the poker fall from her hand.

* * *

**Author's Note: **The song Lucy sings in this chapter is actually a Victorian broadside titled "The Deserter" though supposedly it's an older ditty that was updated to suit the times. Either way, I would highly recommend Fairport Convention's version of it, with the late Sandy Denny's wonderful vocals.

Thanks so much for reviewing! Please do review, I would love to hear from you.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the delay! Things have been somewhat hectic here on my end and my spring semester started today, so I was quite distracted. Fortunately, I will have a long, three day weekend coming up and another update shouldn't be too far behind. But I do truly appreciate your patience and wonderful reviews. Thanks so much, **DemonicSymphony**, **canangelscry**, **Little Lemon**, **Aya SL**, **Mistress Todd**, **xlawa**, **LiquidThoughts** and** andaere**. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Sweeney Todd or it's characters.

**Part Three**

Mrs. Lovett liked company, liked gents and their ladies that would drop by and infuse the house with chatter. And she was quite the talker herself. Could wile away the day with gossip or jokes, yes, she loved bawdy, boisterous jokes. But Judge Turpin wasn't much for talking and he sat in Albert's chair like a stark crow blown in by a gale wind. There was powder on his shoulders still and he turned up his nose when she offered him biscuits, had waved away a cup of tea as though it was arsenic and sniffed airily at her gin.

"Widow Lovett," he said at last, when she had seated herself on a tufted stool with her hands clutched in her lap.

"Your Honor."

He was different from how she remembered, had been all kind and polite when she came to him for money, had made a big fuss over her bonny velvet lined bonnet and called her pretty.

Now he frowned. Now he stared. And now she flinched.

What could he want?

Mrs. Lovett wasn't a foolish sort of lady, wasn't a witless nit. She'd heard the rumors alright, heard what they said, the toothless street hags and the ratty whores and the plump little laundresses.

"Called on me one night, he did," Pearly Poll, a Whitechapel Unfortunate, had told her one afternoon when the sun slanted through the autumn leaves and dripped amber onto the dirty cobblestones. "Never thought he'd be one for whoring, but he is." And she shivered, hugging her ragged shawl about her. "Paid me nicely though."

A chill traced Mrs. Lovett's spine now and she looked at Judge Turpin , her eyes twitching as she tried to smile.

"Beadle Bamford said you'd call," she prattled on. The fire was eating away at a wet, stinking log. Her laundry baskets had been piled in the hall. Only a gentleman's black greatcoat was sprawled over her tea table.

The Judge sipped his gin and balanced the glass on his knee. "I thought your husband had died." He glanced at the coat.

"Yes, sir. Gout, sir. Last autumn," Mrs. Lovett replied.

"Then what is that?" Her jerked his somewhat weak chin in the direction of the greatcoat.

"Just a coat, sir." And she stood, made to tuck it away, but he stopped her and latched his hand over her wrist.

"To whom does it belong?" he asked.

Mrs. Lovett rolled her shoulders. "No one, sir."

"The barber?"

"Benjamin Barker, sir?"

He stiffened at the name. The gin glass quivered and he set it to the side. "He lives in the room upstairs, does he not?"

Mrs. Lovett pulled back, threw the coat down and returned to her seat. There was something wrong with this gent, something dastardly brewing in his eyes. Vermin crawled all over his flesh, invisible, black-eyed rats and they gnawed away at him till he was naught but a bunch of bones, old, damned bones.

She wished she had never let him in, especially with Mr. Barker out for the day with his wife and the baby Johanna resting in her cradle by the hearth.

"He does, sir," she said at last.

The Judge appraised her with dangerous eyes. "Good."

A moment of silence stretched between them and sleet pattered against the window panes. Something of the cold outside entered Mrs. Lovett's skin, penetrated her flesh and burrowed close to her heart.

"What was it you were wanting, sir?" She glanced at the poker tucked neatly by the screened-in hearth. If he thought to try anything, if he thought to-

Judge Turpin followed her gaze and found the cradle instead. He stood and approached the slumbering infant.

Mrs. Lovett swallowed a mouthful of bile.

"What a lovely child," he muttered, but the malice in his voice turned her blood to ice. "Yours, Widow Lovett?"

"No, sir." Her tongue was near frozen to the roof of her mouth and she garbled her words. "Not mine, sir."

He said no more for a time. Mrs. Lovett wondered if she could sneak into dear Albert's butcher shop. Most of his knives were still tucked away in the closest, wrapped in piece of sack cloth, tied with twine. A woman was foolish to go about the streets of London unarmed and she had kept several of her late husband's tools, pawning off the rest for poor pennies. But Judge Turpin didn't seem intent on harming the child, though still he faced the cradle, his coat tails casting snake-like shadows over the threadbare carpet.

"This Mr. Barker," he began, inhaling sharply and sounding even more like a serpent as his breath hissed through his teeth, "an upstanding man is he?"

Mrs. Lovett didn't answer for the time. What could he want with the barber anyway? Nothing good, she fancied, or at least, nothing safe to speak of.

"A fine gentleman," she said at last, vowing to hold her tongue to the last, even if he tried to cut it out. Nellie Lovett wasn't good for much, but she could keep secrets, keep them tight and close to her heart where they would fester and grow and threaten to eat her alive. But she would _never _tell…lest she could be _persuaded_.

"Humph." The Judge knotted his hands behind his back and Mrs. Lovett caught a glimpse of his face. Ghastly it was, reflecting the flickering shadows of the fire that managed to leak through the holes in the screen. "And his wife?"

"Sir?"

"His wife. Lucy Barker."

Now Mrs. Lovett started, her heart fluttering, her stomach jumping into her mouth. What would a gent like him be wanting with Lucy Barker, Lucy Barker with her yellow hair and silly smile?

Ah.

She raised a dark brow. Pearly Poll had been right about him. Judge Turpin was a man of distinct taste.

"A bit silly," she said. "Not much, really. Never cared for her myself."

"Then you are a discerning woman indeed, Widow Lovett." The Judge half-turned and Mrs. Lovett recoiled. His skin was the color of stale milk. "I have heard, Widow Lovett, several tales of questionable nature regarding Lucy Barker's youth." He drew out the last word so that it sounded like a repressed, quiet howl.

Mrs. Lovett hurried to her feet. "What do you mean?"

"Has she any family that you know of?"

"No, sir."

"Friends?"

"A few."

"Yourself included?"

Mrs. Lovett did not hesitate before answering. "Not me."

And for the first time since he arrived, Judge Turpin smiled. "Good. I should so hate to suspect you of concocting a conspiracy."

Mrs. Lovett's head was spinning. She looked desperately at Johanna in her cradle. "I've done no wrong, sir, not a thing, sir. Always been a good woman, I have, sir. Always been a-"

"Indeed." Judge Turpin swooped closer, his torso bent slightly, leaning over her pale, shuddering form. "And I never doubted your virtue, madam. However, I cannot say the same for Lucy Barker."

Mrs. Lovett shook her head. True, she didn't like Mrs. Barker at all, but she couldn't imagine her as a criminal. The girl wasn't smart enough for such crafty work. "What's she done?" she asked.

"I am not at liberty to divulge the sordid details of her lawless acts," the Judge replied. "But I assure your, she's indeed fit for Bedlam as opposed to any prison…or the gallows even."

"You mean she's mad, sir?" It made sense to Mrs. Lovett in a way. The woman was always laughing, cackling really and it was said that madness mocked innocence. A frightening thought leapt into her laboring mind. "Is Benjamin Barker in danger then?"

"Quite." The Judge rested his hand on her shoulder and squeezed lightly.

Mrs. Lovett glanced at the neat little crib. "And the baby?"

"Madam, I am quite certain of it."

She sucked in her breath, ignored the shooting pain in her shoulder brought on by rheumatism and the tightening pressure of the Judge's hand. "I can scarce believe it…well, mayhap I can. Always had a strange feeling when I was 'round her, like chills, like I was being run through by the wind even when it was warm. I-"

He gave her a good jerk and she fell silent.

"Poor woman," he muttered, sympathy spilling from his lips but never reaching his eyes. "I'm secure in your trust, I assume?"

"Of course, sir." Mrs. Lovett was breathing heavy now, her legs trembling in her striped stockings. "Are you going to arrest her, sir? You…you can call your boys into this very parlor if you like, you can wait here-until they come home, that is."

"Oh, I wouldn't want to trouble you or the dear child." He sighed, affectedly, but Mrs. Lovett was too flustered to notice. "But if you were keep watch, madam, if you were to tell Beadle Bamford when Mr. Barker and his wife go out, where they might be found-I should rather make the arrest publicly, give the people a sense of justice, you see."

"I could do that, sir, I could." Mrs. Lovett looked out the frosty window, fighting her rising fear. Just the thought of having a madwoman under her roof, why it was enough to scare one to death-and perhaps it would.

But no, she must be strong, courageous. Poor Mr. Barker would need her comforting presence, would rely on her after his wife was hauled away. She smiled to herself, satisfied.

Judge Turpin's fingers lit on her breast. "And you know, madam, there is quite the reward being offered for the successful capture and conviction of such a dangerous fugitive."

Mrs. Lovett raised her eyes to his and grinned, baring each of her yellowing teeth. They both understood then. Her debt was erased.

And she would earn so much more from Lucy Barker's arrest, would win a new life for herself, and perhaps a family.

Her glance glided over to the cradle once more.

Judge Turpin pulled away, fell back into the shadows and fetched his own overcoat from Albert's chair.

"I'm most appreciative, madam," he said, bowing, walking stick in hand.

Mrs. Lovett nodded and showed him out. The sound of the closing door roused little Johanna from her sleep. Mrs. Lovett hurried back to the fireside, feeling decidedly more maternal now and attached to the soft, wailing bundle she gathered into her arms.

"Poor dearie," she hummed, "without a proper mother and all. Not for long though, eh? Not for long though."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **Another late update. I do apologize. My spring semester has been much more hectic than anticipated. And I'm afraid this vignette is rather short, as well. Sorry! It was supposed to be much shorter actually, about drabble-length, but I managed to squeeze a few hundred words out of it instead. I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to all my readers and those that reviewed, **smashing**, **andaere**, **niki-chan2**, **Aya SL**, **midday **and **BohemianCane04**. Thank you all! I do hope you enjoy.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Sweeney Todd or it's characters.

**Part Four**

Mrs. Lovett stood in the street, hands on her hips, chin tilted up towards the stark sun that only now was threatened by a rain cloud.

"Lovely," she said, her manner reflecting that of a gracious critic, who after years of passing through dull and dreary galleries, finally finds her _Mona Lisa_. Mrs. Lovett wasn't much for art, of course. She'd been brought up in the country, not having the money or the privilege to pay for much schooling. She'd never learned to paint with water colors like proper ladies and she could read only well enough to skim the nightly newspaper, skipping foreign words and ignoring worldly threats with an artless shrug.

But she did know, yes, she was certain that the fresh white paint and lettering above her shop was perfect.

**MRS. LOVETT'S MEAT PIES**.

She read the sign over and over, sang it to herself under her breath and made sure to tip the painter nicely as soon as he hopped down off his ladder. And after all was said and done, her purse still jingled and jangled, her pockets weighed down against her legs as she bustled to and fro.

That Judge Turpin was a fine fellow. He hadn't asked for much, only wanted to know when Mr. and Mrs. Barker were going out for a stroll.

When Mrs. Lovett awoke that very morn and tumbled out of her empty widow's bed, she was greeted by pink clouds, not grey and a welcoming breeze that blew away most of the city's stench. Chances seemed good that her tenants would go out of doors and before breakfast, she threw on her bonnet and boots and raced down to the find the Beadle on some seedy street corner.

He was exceedingly happy to see her and he thanked her for all her "charity" and "kindness" and generous "mercy" towards poor Mr. Barker. Mrs. Barker, he swore, would be in Bedlam before night fell and she could sleep easy for the first time in two weeks.

That cheered Mrs. Lovett greatly, as she had been on pins and needles for quite some time, sneaking suspicious glances at that Lucy Barker when she could. The signs of madness were awfully apparent now and just the other day she caught the girl talking to herself, chatting away like a loon in her sunny parlor while no one was about.

Mrs. Lovett slept with Albert's butcher knives and one eye open for a fortnight.

But all would be well now, seeing that dear Mr. Barker would soon be out of danger and little Johanna, although motherless, would turn out as a proper lady, free from her mother's torment. And Mrs. Lovett had made off quite well from this whole business too. The Judge had forgotten her debts and tossed her a pretty purse of coins for what he termed her "compliance".

For the first time in many long months, Mrs. Lovett felt the weight of her husband's death lifted from her shoulders and she was nothing less than content.

But she frowned now, seeing the rain clouds, worrying that the paint would run and she'd have to pay double for a fresh coat. The first few drops sent her scurrying inside, where her wet shoes slipped against the hall floor, sounding like squeaking, scratching mice. She hurried into the kitchen and put on a pot of tea. Mr. Barker might want something stronger when he finally came home, but she wanted to talk him round first. Poor man would be heartbroken, heartbroken indeed. Mrs. Lovett could certainly sympathize. They would get on all right in the end, she was convinced and maybe in a few years they might….

Thunder masked the first scream that sounded in the street. Mrs. Lovett jumped when she heard the second one, followed by a frantic pounding on her front door.

Her bushy brown hair stood on end and she looked through the windows, stared past the sheets of falling rain that obscured her already poor sight.

Lucy Barker was at the door.

God, could she have escaped?

Mrs. Lovett pulled one of Albert's rusty knives from out of the closet and moved into the hall. A fresh bout of lightening sent shadows spiraling down the corridor, etching her own, frightened silhouette against the wall.

What to do at such a time? Mrs. Lovett had heard stories a madmen before, lunatics that escaped during the foggy London nights and went butchering about the streets of the East End. Or sometimes, they would sneak into a decent man's house and string a whole family up from the ceiling rafters.

Mrs. Lovett felt her own windpipe contract in fear and her fingers, slick with sweat, slipped along the knife's long handle.

Perhaps she should wait, perhaps the Judge's men were right on Lucy's trail and they would have captured in a flash and she needn't worry.

A minute dragged by, then two, then ten and Mrs. Lovett shivered with each renewed shriek.

"Nellie! Nellie! Nellie!"

The door jerked inward on it's hinges. Mrs. Lovett thought of putting a chair against the knob. But then she heard a second voice, a thin, wail of a cry that rent her racing heart in two.

Johanna.

She couldn't very well leave the child out in the rain with such a madwoman. Mr. Barker would truly lose himself if his child were harmed and Mrs. Lovett simply couldn't live with the guilt of having caused his sorrow. With a bracing sigh, she threw open the door, both the storm and Johanna's screams freezing her blood.

"Nellie!" Mrs. Barker fell onto the threshold and Mrs. Lovett only just managed to snatch Johanna from her arms. "Nellie, it's Benjamin!"

"Mr. Barker?" Mrs. Lovett's voice caught in her throat and she reluctantly laid down her butcher knife in order to hold Johann more firmly. "Where is he?"

"Arrested!" Mrs. Barker moaned and she was tearing at her yellow hair. "And it was Turpin who ordered it so!"

Too late then, did Mrs. Lovett realize her wrongs, her faults, her flaws that had blinded her and dropped thirty pieces of silver into her purse. Too late did she realize what she had done, how she had betrayed them and likely killed Mr. Barker and destroyed something she had only envied, but never wanted to harm. And too late did she realize that it was she who had been the black-hearted villain, the danger lurking in the dark streets that had ruined them all.

Outside, the white paint wept onto the cobblestones.

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**Author's Note: **Thanks so much for reading! Please take the time to review. I would love to hear from you. Have a wonderful week! 


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to yet another installment of "Asylum". I would like to thank everyone who took the time to read the last chapter and those that reviewed, **Aya SL**, **niki-chan2**, **Little Lemon**, **smashing**, **Dragonpinata354**, **The Nightingale's Song **(thanks for reviewing twice!) **midday**, **Stelmaria of the Tigers**, **92 Monkeys** and **PearlSparrow13**. Wow, so many reviews. Thank you all so much! I hope you enjoy.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Sweeney Todd or it's characters.

**Part Five**

Lucy Barker was too ill to visit her husband before his trial at the Old Bailey. Running home all in the rain after his arrest had almost done her in and she was down in bed with a cold when Mr. Barker was brought before Judge Turpin's bench. So instead, Mrs. Lovett graciously offered to take her place.

It had been hard enough getting the pale Lucy to stay at home. She fair followed Mrs. Lovett about, tugging on her skirts and whining whenever the wind howled. As it was, Mrs. Lovett's patience was more frayed than her threadbare curtains. She had not only the nagging Lucy to look after and the constantly crying Johanna, but also the black spot on her heart. It was a new pestilence, a pain that nibbled at her during the day and made her muffle her moans against her musty pillow at night.

And all the while, she felt like the villain, the slippery, slick as oil villain who had damned innocence for a heartless laugh. Mrs. Lovett didn't think she'd ever be whole again, even if Mr. Barker came home and all was put to rights.

She had sinned once and what was one sin? And what were two or three or four sins? The guilty were guilty in the end.

But still she managed to keep Lucy Barker home, keep her in bed when the trial came and sleet made the grimy streets grey.

'You'll catch your death next!" Mrs. Lovett hollered up the stairs to her charge as she headed out. With nimble, nefarious fingers she tied the black ribbon of her bonnet under her chin. "And then where will little Johanna be? Can't care for her myself now, can in?"

The last warning was enough to keep Lucy quiet and Mrs. Lovett shut the door behind her with a satisfied sigh. It was better this way, she told herself. Mr. Barker needn't be tormented by the sight of his wife's tear-stained face. It wasn't proper for a man going to a ghastly end to be haunted. Mrs. Lovett knew that for a fact. She was haunted enough.

Fortune smiled on her a that afternoon, keeping the streets empty with the chilly autumn weather and an early snowfall that froze her very bones. Mrs. Lovett's boots were coated with slush by the time she got to the Old Bailey and she puffed a little, stopping just under the outreaching shadow of the imposing building. It sent wicked shivers up her spine, it did and she imagined all manner of criminals going to and fro within. Highwaymen, robbers, murderers. And Mr. Barker, guiltless as a newborn babe.

It took all her courage, it did, to pass through the gates. She half-fancied they looked like finger bones stretching up from some grave beneath the street.

The guards didn't help either, menacing as they were, with ill-fitting jackets and drawn, pock-marked faces. In a voice much mousier than her own, Mrs. Lovett asked if she might be permitted to see Mr. Barker.

What followed was a rather harrowing search through the ever-darkening halls of the court, down a set of stairs and through a locked gate, which was only opened after she promised the bailiff all the coins in her purse.

"Prisoner 072088?" the bailiff said with a grotesque wink of his yellow-tinged eye. "He's not long for this place."

"What do you mean?" Mrs. Lovett had the nerve to ask, her heart drumming along with the crisp sound of hail hitting the narrow windowpanes. "They're going to hang him?"

But the bailiff only laughed and the sound was more chilling than the rusty organ that played at the church where Albert had his funeral.

"Don't stay too long now," he told her, wrenching open the last gate and showing her a corridor which spilt two rows of cells. All of them were empty except for one far in the back.

Mrs. Lovett squinted, jumping as the bailiff slammed the gate closed behind her with another chuckle.

"Mr. Barker?" she called and heard her cries echo back, assaulting her with her own sense of urgency.

And the poor thing, that poor barber, was on his feet in a flash, pressing his face against the soot-stained cell bars.

"Lucy!"

Mrs. Lovett's heart sank into her stomach and nervously, she adjusted her lacey gloves, taking a quick step down the corridor. "It's Mrs. Lovett, Mr. Barker. Your landlady. I've…I've come to see you, Mr. Barker, before the trial that is."

His disappointment was palpable and Mrs. Lovett swallowed her own, regret burning her throat like bile.

She forced herself closer to his cell.

"I was thinking, I mean, I was wondering if there was anything I could do for you," she said lamely.

Mr. Barker emitted a noise faintly akin to a snarl, but closer to a sob. Mrs. Lovett saw him bury his head in his hands.

From somewhere in the jail, she heard a steady stream of dripping water sounding like tears.

"Lucy stayed at home with your Johanna," Mrs. Lovett continued. "She's ill."

Mr. Barker's head jerked up, his neck muscles tensing. "Is she all right?"

Mrs. Lovett nodded, the gauzy veil of her bonnet tickling her cheeks. "As well as can be expected." She couldn't help but gawk at Mr. Barker now, some morbid fascination and hidden lust pulling her closer, driving her to reach into the cell and for his hand.

He looked much the same, paler and his eyes were slits, tarnished with red and unshed tears. His fingers were cold against hers.

"It's all right dearie," she told him, shocked by the sudden emotion that strangled her voice. "I'm sure you'll be let off, once they realize it's all been a mistake. I can testify, if you like, not that they'd give a pin for a pauper like me. But it's worth a try."

Liar, reason told her. Mr. Barker didn't know she had sold him for a dream and a hope that had never been hers to claim in the first place. She wanted to tell him, really, but couldn't leave him questioning, couldn't leave him wondering why before she had time to explain. Some things were best left unsaid and most things were better left unthought-of. Mrs. Lovett could contend with nightmares. Mr. Barker, she knew, couldn't.

They'd all face judgment in the end, though some unlucky fools faced it sooner than others. Mr. Barker happened to be one such unfortunate soul. But ever as Mrs. Lovett tried to put it right in her mind, she found she couldn't.

He was right, him and his wife.

She was wrong. She was wicked. She was a wretch.

And she hadn't the strength to confess it.

Nellie Lovett could only lie to him.

"It'll all end up well," she told Mr. Barker cheerfully. "You'll be home tonight and by the fire. And…and I'll send up a couple of fresh-baked pies for you to feast on. Silly little mishap this has been, strange little adventure-"

"Nellie." He had never used her given name before, had always been proper-like and called her "Mrs." or "Ma'am" or once, laughingly, "my lady."

Mrs. Lovett succumbed to silence.

"I know you've had your share of troubles," he began, tongue flicking along his dry and parchment-white lips. "But if I could only ask one favor of you, just one."

Mrs. Lovett rolled her numb tongue about in her mouth. "Whatever you want, dearie." In the end, she could deny him nothing.

"You're a strong woman," Mr. Barker said and something glinted in his already dead eyes, some flicker of appreciation that sent spirals of warmth throughout Mrs. Lovett's aching body. "Lucy isn't, though," he continued. "She needs help, looking after. Will you, Mrs. Lovett? Will you protect her?"

Mrs. Lovett sniffed and was surprised to find tears chasing after her words. "I wouldn't think of doing anything else," she managed.

Mr. Barker nodded gratefully and released her hand, leaving her ashamed and tormented and more mad than any patient at Bedlam.

He had said all that was needed, had gotten to the heart of matters while she stood there and babbled. He had no reason to disguise his guilt.

Mrs. Lovett's mind raced, her thoughts singed and burning as she watched him turn away, watched him look into the shadows and beyond.

She had to tell him.

"Mr. Barker!" His name leapt from her throat just as the bailiff threw open the gate.

"Out!" he ordered, but Mrs. Lovett was rooted to the spot like a lighting-struck tree. It took the bailiff and another guard to finally tear her away and she fought all the while, clawing, screaming, biting and cursing them for the hell-sent fiends that they were.

In the end, she was thrown back out into the street, where she belonged, with a torn petticoat and a heelless boot.

Her bonnet was long gone.

* * *

It was a cold night on Fleet Street when Mrs. Lovett finally found her way home and the snow lay in drifts against the dirty doors, gathering dust even as it fell. Mrs. Lovett near collapsed as she stumbled into her hall, her feet blistered and bloody after hours of waiting, of standing outside the Old Bailey in hopes that she would see Mr. Barker home.

He never came.

And what was worse was finding little Lucy, her hair all undone and about her shoulders, standing at the bottom of the stairs with Johanna in her arms.

"Benjamin?" she asked hopefully through bleary, blank eyes. "Is he on his way?"

Mrs. Lovett sobbed as she replied. ""No, I don't think so."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Thanks so much for reading! Please take the time to review. I would love to hear from you. Have a wonderful week! 


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